Lace.
That is the best I can explain
about the way her fingers touched the keys.
She only played once for me on an old piano
in her mother’s living room. I sat
in a folding chair beside her,
not really listening,
just watching her hands, strong wings.
I always wanted something solid,
some kind of evidence as to why
she was beautiful. There were so many reasons,
but I could never explain any of them.
Until she played that day
and I found one.
Lace.
Her hands
when she played
were perfect lace.